es, and began the following melody to an air much resembling 'Sir
Roger de Coverley':--

'To-morrow I 'll just be three-score;
May never worse fortune betide me
Than to have a hot tumbler before,
And a beautiful crayture beside me!
If this world 's a stage, as they say,
And that men are the actors, I 'm certain,
In the after-piece I 'd like to play,
And be there at the fall of the curtain.
Whack! fol lol.

'No, no, Mrs. Carney, I'll take the vestment on it, nothing of the
kind--the allusion is most discreet; but there is more.

'For the pleasures of youth are a flam;
To try them again, pray excuse me;
I 'd rather be priest that I am,
With the rights of the Church to amuse me.
Sure, there's naught like a jolly old age,
And the patriarchs knew this, it said is;
For though they looked sober and sage,
'Faith, they had their own fun with the ladies!
Whack! fol lol.

'Come now, Captain, you are a man that knows his humanities; 'I be
judged by you.'

'I protest,' said I laughingly, 'I'd rather pronounce on your punch than
your polemics.'

'No, would you though?' said the priest, with a joyous twinkle in his
eye, that showed which controversy had more attraction for him. 'Faix,
then, you shall have a fair trial. Beach me that glass, Mr. Larkins; and
if it isn't sweet enough, maybe Mrs. Carney would stir it for you with
her finger. There, now, we'll be comfortable and social, and have no
more bother about creeds, nor councils; for although it is only child's
play for me to demolish a hundred like you, I'd rather be merciful, and
leave you, like Alexander the coppersmith, to get the reward of your
works.'

Whether it was the polite attention bestowed upon me by his reverence,
or that the magical word 'Captain,' so generic for all things military
in Ireland, had its effect, or that any purely personal reasons were
the cause, I cannot aver; but, certainly, Mrs. Carney's manner became
wonderfully softened. She smiled at me slyly when the priest wasn't
looking, and vouchsafed an inquiry as to whether I had ever served in
the Roscommon yeomanry.

The kettle once more sent forth its fragrant steam, the glasses were
filled, the vanquished Quaker had extinguished both himself and his
argument beneath his broad beaver; and Father Tom, with a glance
of pleasure at the party, pr